Chapter3 How Dare You Call Yourself a Master?

Sophia's POV

Curator Clark was startled and looked at me with difficulty, his eyes clearly showing hope and pleading.

I was silent for a moment before finally speaking, "Let's go take a look first."

Curator Clark was overjoyed and said repeatedly, "Good, good, good, let's go over there right now."

The group walked through the corridor to the professional restoration room at the end.

The door was open, and two people were already standing inside. One elderly man wore an iron-gray suit, his frame lean and upright, his white hair combed meticulously. His eyes were bright and sharp, focused intently on the painting before him, his expression full of concentration and care for the artwork. This was none other than Walter Foster, a giant in the domestic collecting world, famous for his sharp eye and exquisite collection.

Standing beside Walter was a middle-aged man in his forties, his hair slicked back with gel, pointing at the oil painting and speaking confidently, "Walter, this level of paint layer separation requires micro-vacuum suction fixation first, then layered reinforcement with special gel. The restoration difficulty is extremely high, and the success rate is at most thirty percent."

Walter's brows were tightly furrowed, clearly not satisfied with this assessment.

Hearing footsteps, he turned around. Seeing Curator Clark and the group, his eyes immediately lit up, "Clark! Can Master Sophia come over?"

The middle-aged man, suddenly interrupted, glanced sideways at me as I walked over.

Before Curator Clark could speak, I had already walked past him and went straight to the worktable. I only glanced at the painting once before saying calmly, "It can be restored."

"Restore it? Such big talk for someone so young? Do you know this is an authentic Rembrandt?" the middle-aged man, Gary Davis, said angrily.

Walter also frowned, "It's good that you're interested in oil paintings, but you should just watch the master work from the side."

Curator Clark coughed from the side, "Actually, she is Master Sophia."

Walter's eyes lit up, staring at me, "Master Sophia is mysterious, rarely seen in the industry. I didn't expect her to be such a young and accomplished girl."

"This is ridiculous! For God's sake, stop bragging."

Gary sneered, "Master Sophia's skillful hands have saved dozens of national treasure-level oil paintings in three years. How could she be a little girl?"

"Oh? You admire her that much? Then if I restore this painting, wouldn't that prove I'm Master Sophia?" I raised an eyebrow.

"If you're Master Sophia, I'll kneel down to you right here!"

"I'll be waiting."

Seeing my confident look, Gary suddenly panicked, "Wait, you're really going to restore it? If you ruin it, ten lives wouldn't be enough to pay for it."

Oliver, who had been leaning against the doorframe, suddenly laughed.

He walked in slowly, hands in his pockets, his posture casual.

"It's just a painting, isn't it?" He walked to my side, patted my shoulder, and looked coldly at Gary, "Go ahead and restore it. If you damage it, I'll cover for you. We can afford to pay whatever it costs!"

Gary choked on these words, his face flushing red, "You're simply absurd!"

Before he finished speaking, I had already started.

I put on gloves, took tools from the nearby equipment rack, my movements calm and practiced.

Gary's face changed dramatically when he saw this, and he shouted, "Stop! What do you think you're doing!"

He rushed forward to stop me, but Oliver stepped aside, blocking his way.

"What's the rush?" Oliver raised an eyebrow, his height and presence creating a double pressure, "Didn't you say you'd kneel down? I'm about to open your eyes."

"Simply arrogant!" Gary trembled with anger and turned to shout at Walter, "Walter, are you just going to let them mess around? This is a national treasure!"

Walter was also anxious and stepped forward to stop me, but when he saw my movements clearly, his steps suddenly halted.

My technique was too skilled. The vacuum probe in my hands was like a precisely calculated machine, accurate to the millimeter. My eyes were focused and calm, as if the entire world had shrunk to just this damaged painting before me.

Gary's expression began to change too, from initial anger to surprise to disbelief.

"This technique is the highest precision level," he muttered to himself, "How is this possible, how old is she..."

Walter's eyes grew wider and wider. He moved closer, almost pressing against the edge of the worktable, afraid to miss any detail.

"The timing of the layered reinforcement is so precise..." he couldn't help but praise in a low voice, "The temperature control is also just right..."

Gary's pupils contracted sharply, "Could she really be..."

Curator Clark nodded with a smile.

Gary's voice was full of disbelief, "But, but Master Sophia should be..."

"Should be an old man?" Curator Clark finished for him, looking at me with pride in his eyes, "I was also surprised when I first met her, but we have to admit, some people are born geniuses. Although Master Sophia is young, she's much better than some older restorers!"

Walter nodded slowly, his gaze toward me growing more and more admiring.

At the worktable, I had completed the first stage of critical reinforcement. I straightened up, took off my gloves, and looked calmly at the dumbfounded Gary beside me.

"Now, how exactly do you want to kneel?" My voice was cold, tinged with mockery.

Gary's face instantly flushed red. Stiffening his neck, he argued stubbornly, "Don't get too proud! You've only completed the initial reinforcement! Restoring a painting has countless steps. Who knows if you can do well with the cleaning and color restoration later? Maybe the first part was just luck!"

"Luck?" I raised an eyebrow, stepped aside from the worktable, and made an inviting gesture, "Since you think I was just lucky, why don't you demonstrate yourself what non-lucky restoration looks like."

Gary was stumped, his lips trembling without being able to utter a word. But under everyone's gaze, for the sake of his pitiful self-respect, he could only bite the bullet and walk forward.

He picked up the fine cleaning brush. Whether from nervousness or not, his hand couldn't stop trembling. Although the trembling was subtle, for ancient painting restoration that requires millimeter-level precision, it was simply a disaster.

I crossed my arms, watching coldly, mocking in a cold voice, "Can't even hold the tool steady, and you call yourself a restorer? Has the restoration industry become this rotten? Any random person can call themselves a master?"